


When the Rain Stops

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-22
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2018-10-26 09:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Ron must say goodbye when the rain stops





	When the Rain Stops

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This is my first HPFF story.  Many thanks to tellemonstar for the beta assistance, all remaining mistakes are certainly mine.  I hope you enjoy this!

The rain started to drizzle as he walked up the flagstone steps.  It was cool and dark, the clouds skulking low enough to cover everything with a touch of dread.  Pulling his cloak tighter around his neck, he stepped quickly to the door.  He sighed heavily and stared at the large wooden door, finally gaining the nerve to knock, albeit softly.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when a tiny old house elf answered.  After all, why should she stoop so low as to answer her own door? 

The elf looked at him with disdain and spoke sharply as he shielded himself from the elements by stepping slightly behind the heavy door.  “May I help you?” 

“Is your mistress at home?” 

The elf paused, pondering his question.  “Perhaps she is,” he replied coolly, regarding him again with a look of caution.  “Who may I say is calling?” 

“Mr. Weasley,” he said quickly, “Ron Weasley.” 

“Just a moment,” the elf sneered, looking Ron up and down. “ _Mr._ Weasley,” he said as he slammed the door in Ron’s face. 

_Well, that went well,_ Ron thought.  He’d never been to her house before.  Up to that moment, he never thought that fact odd or unnerving.  Standing in the rain, however, looking up at the huge ornately carved stone façade, he realized how out of place this all seemed, how out of place _he_ seemed. 

Suddenly the door swung open wide and a different elf, a young female, peered around it.  She spoke softly and with a much friendlier tone, gesturing to him, “Please come inside, Mr. Weasley.” 

He stepped into the entryway and she held out her arms, palms up toward him.  “Your cloak, please.”   

“Er, right.  Thank you,” he said quickly as he unfastened the heavy garment, clumsily shrugging out of it and handing it to her. 

Snapping her fingers, the cloak disappeared and she turned swiftly toward a long hallway on her right.  “Follow me, please.” 

Ron followed her down the dimly lit hallway and stopped near the end.  She pushed the door open and nodded for him to enter.  “Mistress will arrive shortly.”  He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets as he shuffled into the room, hearing the door close quietly behind him. 

The room was not overly large but was opulent from top to bottom.  A massive marble fireplace took up the entire far wall, with two large wingback chairs placed strategically in front of it atop a lush woven rug.  He noticed a chandelier above him, filled with unlit candles.  _Probably Goblin made,_ he thought.  The only light in the room came from the blazing fire.  He moved closer and held his hands out in front of him to warm them in the glow.

Another door opened at the end of the room and he saw her figure glide through it.  As she came closer, he could see her silken dressing gown billowing behind her.  She strode straight up to him, staring boldly into to his eyes, greeting him with pure frustration.  “And just what do you think you’re doing here?” she hissed. 

He closed his eyes, taking in her scent.  It was bold and harsh, just like she was.  He realized that she had probably been sleeping.  It _was_ late after all.  He’d never know it from looking at her though.  Her gown was smooth, her makeup done, not a single black, shiny hair out of place.  There was always something immaculate about her.   

“I had to see you,” he whispered in desperate tones. 

“How dare you?  You have no right,” she retorted harshly.   

“I know,” he sighed, bowing his head, “I know I don’t have any right to be here.” 

“Exactly.  So why don’t you leave and we’ll pretend you were never here.”  With that she spun around and started to walk away, halting as he reached out to grab her arm. He pulled her back against his chest, lazily draping his arm around her waist.  He half expected her to elbow him in the gut.  She didn’t though.  Instead, she grabbed his forearm and dug her nails in as if she would never let go.  “You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered again in a shaky voice. 

“I know,” he said softly, his lips leaning to her ear, “but I couldn’t help myself.” 

She smelled the Firewhiskey on his breath.  “You’ve been drinking,” she said coolly, obviously trying to climb out of the emotional fog in which he bathed her.   

“Stag night,” he whispered as his free hand gently moved her hair to the side and his lips grazed her neck, “I’m s’posed to be drunk on stag night, yeah?”  He continued nuzzling her neck, latching on to the pulse point behind her ear.  He kissed the spot softly then nudged his tongue against her skin.   

She hated herself at that moment.  Her resolve was melting and she needed to get away from him.  She broke out of the haze and pulled his arm from her waist, spinning around to face him.  Looking up into his eyes, she hissed, “We can’t do this anymore,” and shoved him sharply away from her. 

He sighed and lowered his head in defeat.  “I know we can’t, not after tomorrow anyway.”  He lifted his chin and looked at her with sad eyes and a soft ironic laugh fell from him.  “She’s asked for the _Fidelis_ _Bond_.” 

A small gasp escaped her, followed quickly by a smirking chuckle.  “I would too,” she paused, “if I were her.  Guess she’s smarter than I thought.”  They stood there for a moment, Ron picking at an imaginary spot on his jumper > as she looked>  into the fire.   

“So she knows then?” 

He shrugged.  “She suspects, I think.  No details though.” 

“What a shame,” she said with an evil smirk, “she could hate me even more if someone were to anonymously divulge the details.” 

“You wouldn’t,” he said accusingly. 

“Oh I wouldn’t?”   

“It could hurt you just as bad as me.” 

“Perhaps.  Or maybe it would simply elevate my reputation, showing that I was able to destroy the perfect couple, two-thirds of the Golden Trio, even.  And why wouldn’t that be worth it?  I am a Slytherin, after all.” 

“You wouldn’t do that, Pansy,” he said softly but confidently, as he approached her again. 

“And why is that, Weasley?” she said, taunting him. 

He leaned closer to her, brushing his lips over hers once, then again.  The third time his lips touched hers, she parted and invited him in, unabashedly kissing him back.  As he pulled away from her, his hands cradled her face, softly running the pads of his thumbs over her delicate cheeks.  “Because you love me.” 

She chortled at him.  “A few quick shags are certainly _not_ love.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her, like a parent would when they were about to correct a child’s statement.  “We’ve spent 42 brilliant nights together in the past year.  That’s more than a few quick shags, yeah?” 

She paused and looked into the fire.  _He’s remembered every night._ She wouldn’t let him invade her emotions, she had to put a stop to it.  “You’re mental, Weasley.” 

“And you’re in denial.  I’ve shagged you more than I have. . .her.” 

She laughed again.  “Well that doesn’t surprise me, Weasley, after all, she’s not exactly a wanton witch, now is she?” 

“Please, I don’t want to talk about her right now.” 

“Why do you come to me, Weasley?"  She questioned him with a frustrated tone.  "What is it that you’re looking for?  What doesn’t she give you that I can?”  She hoped the answer was simple.  She hoped the answer was that she was the better shag.  _That_ , she could handle.  Anything more would dig too deep and hurt too much. 

He lowered his forehead to hers, wrapping his arms around her tightly.  “I dunno exactly, it’s something, I just. . .I just can’t explain what I feel when I’m with you.”  He pulled back from her, lowering his lips to her cheek, feathering light kisses around her eyes, into her hair, whispering softly.  “When I’m with her it’s all organized and scheduled and… proper.  But when we’re together, it’s like nothing else matters, nothing.” 

She wanted to run.  She wanted to push him away.  She wanted to have a good cry, alone, and be bitter to everyone in the morning.  She wanted to kick something, throw something or punch someone, just do something mean spirited.  But she couldn’t.  When he held her like this she too felt as though nothing else mattered. 

He sank to his knees in front of her, trailing his hands to her shoulders, down her arms and around her waist, nuzzling her.  “Please, just let me have one more night like this.  Please, I’m begging you.”  He was almost sobbing into her gown.  “I don’t want to forget you, I don’t want to forget this.” 

She softly ran her fingers through his hair, pulling the fringe away from his eyes so she could see the emotions there.  It never ceased to amaze her that the one person in the world who could bring out the best in her was a red-haired, blood-traitor Gryffindor whom she spent years berating just for laughs. “I don’t want to forget either,” she whispered to him as he peered up at her hopefully through damp lashes.  “But I will.  I have to.  I need you to understand that.” 

He nodded reluctantly.  He knew in his heart she wouldn’t suffer like he would.  It wasn’t permitted in her world.  She would bury their time deep, in a dark hole that she could build a wall around with her bitterness and regret.  No one would recognize the pain in her, she would see to that.   

He, on the other hand, would take these memories and place them carefully in a small corner of his heart.  A place only he could open, but that he could open easily when he needed.  When the clouds came over him, when his smile faded, he could draw upon the fleeting past to a time and a place where he felt free, felt comfortable, and felt important.   

They had reached an understanding.  This was the end.  The end of something neither one could explain, but something that didn’t need an explanation to begin with.  They would have this night and nothing more.   He tugged the tie of her gown, grazing his fingers across her flesh as it fell open, revealing her to him.  She wore nothing underneath.  She knew why he came to her and she wasn’t really fond of pretense, at least not with him.  

As he nuzzled her belly, his mind wandered back to a particularly raucous encounter they had in the cellar of Honeyduke’s.  Although they met there by chance, the second they saw each other a silent plot had unfolded between them.  He had nodded his head toward the back stairwell and she had smirked at him knowingly.  Five minutes later she was bent over cartons of chocolate frogs, skirt pulled up, knickers pulled down and Ron having his way with her.  Ten minutes later they were strolling their separate ways through Hogsmeade. 

* * * 

Lying naked in the dying glow of the fire, he intertwined their fingers, making intricate patterns on her palm with his thumb.  Her cheek was resting against her hand, across his chest, listening to his heartbeat.  She looked up and watched him carefully.  He was staring at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought.  She broke the silence, “Why do you never say her name around me?” 

He came back from where-ever his mind had wandered and leaned up on his elbow to look at her. “What?” 

“Her name.  You never use her name when we’re together.” 

He leaned back on the rug and chuckled.  “I would think you wouldn’t mind that so much, yeah?” 

“I don’t mind either way.  I’m curious, that’s all.” 

He couldn’t lie to her.  He’d tried many times and always failed miserably.  He threw his arm over his eyes so she wouldn’t see him.  “Because I’m ashamed.” 

“Ashamed of what?  Me?”  She bellowed, propping herself up on his chest, obviously furious. 

Grunting at her sudden weight on his chest, he quickly reached out and touched her cheek with his hand, unshed tears welling in his eyes.  “Of course I’m not ashamed of you!  How could you think that?”   

“What then?” she spat, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Me.  I’m ashamed of myself.  I’m ashamed that I don’t have to courage to end this on my own.  I’m ashamed that I don’t have the courage to tell her the truth.  But mostly,” he sniffled, “I’m ashamed that I can’t give you what you deserve.” 

She rolled her eyes at that.  “And just what is it you think I deserve, Weasley?” 

“Everything.  More than I can give anyway.” 

“Is that why you’re doing this, Weasley?  Is that why you’re marrying her?  You think she doesn’t want as much as I do?  You think you can give her enough to keep her content?” 

He didn’t say anything but he turned his head away from her and tried to pull out from under her weight. “You’re wrong. . .Ron.”  she chastised, and the use of his first name burned through him like the Firewhiskey he drank earlier that night.  “If you think she’ll be content, you’re dead wrong.  She wants your Pureblood to give her more credibility.  She’ll suck your soul dry and manipulate you into a shell of mediocrity trailing behind her shining star.  And all the while, she’ll tell you that it’s what’s best for you.  And she’ll expect you to believe her because she thinks she’s smarter than you.  I couldn’t do that to you.  I would never expect you to be something you’re not.” 

“But you wouldn’t be happy being a poor man’s wife either,” he snapped back at her. 

“Mark my words, she’ll see to it that you’re not poor for long.  You may think me pompous and greedy, and that’s fine.  But I would never sacrifice someone I love to better my status.  Loving them would be enough reward.”  She sniffed through her tears, “And having them love me back.” 

He tried to decide if it was better to keep arguing with her or to let it go.  Arguing would make it easier, the leaving, that is.  Easier for her anyway.  He just couldn’t though.  He couldn’t waste the last few precious hours they had together.  He needed those to fill that space in his heart, the one that broke open every time they parted. 

And so he stopped arguing and he took her in his arms again and held her while she cried.  He told her again and again how sorry he was and how much he loved her and how he never expected her to forgive him.  That he expected her to forget him instantly and write him off as a bad debt.  He made love to her and she made love to him, over and over again until they both drifted to sleep, spent and sated. 

 

* * *

Ron padded quietly down the hallway to the front door.  He saw the first twinge of daylight slipping through the windows high above the entrance hall.  As he slipped his shoes on he cursed himself, _bloody idiot, the house elf vanished my cloak!_ As suddenly as he realized this, he heard the telltale _crack_ behind him.  “You’re, uh, cloak, uh, sir,” the young elf said softly.  She looked at him shyly, “you’ll be needin’ it in this weather.”   

He smiled warmly at her, “Thank you, er, what’s your name?” 

The elf was shocked that a wizard would ask her name.  She lowered her eyes and answered softly, “Karis, sir, me name is Karis.”   

Ron knelt down, taking the cloak from her as he offered his hand.  “Thank you, Karis.” 

“’Tis my duty, sir,” she spoke more firmly, bringing her chin up but not reaching to shake his hand.   

“Could I,” he paused, looking at her kindly, “Could I ask another favor of you, Karis?” 

She started to speak but stopped, then nodded slightly. 

“Take care of her today, will you?” The elf took on the air of her mistress and looked at him defiantly.  

“Mistress is more than capable of . . .” but Ron held out his hand to stop her.  

“Just take care of her today,” he sighed, “it’s not going to be a very good day for either of us.”  With that he stood and threw his cloak over his shoulders before grabbing the door and walking purposefully into the light morning drizzle.  

He knew he should be smiling, he should be happy and excited.  It was his wedding day.  He was off to marry the girl of his dreams, after all.  And as the rain stopped and the sun threatened to peek over the horizon, instead he felt sad and mournful that he had to leave the woman of his fantasies behind.

* * *

 


End file.
